


snowing in your mind

by Iiesmith (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Mental Instability, Psionic Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Iiesmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You wait for the next flash to illuminate the sky as you pretend it’s red and blue and white and black and suddenly consuming and enveloping your blood-pusher - the rush is unimaginable and you can’t remember it correctly without it tasting bitter in your mouth. </p><p>It doesn't stop you from trying though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i can never leave the past behind

 

 

> ** snowing in your ** : mind  
> 

 

It’s storming outside. You’ve always enjoyed the crashes of lightning that were kindled within the bowels of clouds and found their way to land, lashing at the ground like a whip. It reminds you of something you’ve lost - the heavy comfort that snaked around your think-pan -- head you mean, _head_. The word escapes you and you don’t make chase because you know it’ll start sinking its claws into your head and screaming at you in protest.  
  
Your favourite occupation whilst sitting at the edge of the window ledge is staring at the droplets of rain water desperately try and outrun each other - you smile with a bit too many teeth, just as you imagine God would or whatever fucked up deity that's sneering down at you; you feel bad for the raindrops, they've done nothing wrong. They didn’t know tha- you didn’t have the heart to tell them that their efforts were futile. They were doomed from the beginning and that sneering deity's face is just so _goddamnmmmotherfucking smu--._  
  
You don’t even bat an eyelash at the way the thunder all but screams down with a ferocious noise and you’re confused as to why - you’ve seen Kankri jump a little bit at the abrupt crack but instead of scaring you they feel more homely, a nostalgic warmth coiling throughout your body. Aranea stares at you from across the room, she thinks you can’t see her. You do.  
  
They seem to think you need babying and you are most certainly going to object but you feel too homely right here, lazy and drowsy too but also a bit restricted as you pull down the collar of your suit to loosen it slightly. The lightning crashes closer and you decided to drop it - it’s not like you care too much about their opinions, you weren’t the pinnacle of virtue before and you don’t expect to change that just because your head can’t keep up with you any more and you’re about as strong as one of Meulin’s copious amount of meow-beasts whereas you were were strong before, glorious wonderful feared amazing strong _mazingstrongfearedpowerrrf ul_ \-- it's sickening.  
  
You hate how they treat you.  
  
You long for the feeling of a double edged blade just a bit too close to your frontal lobes, living on the edge with power all but bursting through your cranium and dizzyingly exhilarating as it charges your very veins with electricity and you and Kurloz would wander off and you could both wander for hours and hours and it’d be okay because you’d look out for him and he for you but not like this -- not like this.      
  
No one’s looking out for you as a friend -- as someone they trust. They’re looking out for a husk of a person that they hope won’t get damaged further. A collectable piece, precious but useless - stuck in a box.  
  
He feels like that he’s died and no one wants to move on, clinging onto his shell for dear life and anchoring him to the living? No dead, he was dead - twice now? It doesn’t matter because this isn’t his second life but perhaps an elongation of _their_ memory. He doesn’t want immortality. Take it back. Perhaps maybe - maybe Damara could answer his question, about how he could stop existing altogether because he’s been here too long but she tends to just shrug him off and try and divert his attention nowadays. Just like they all did and still do, they don’t really learn but you don't have the heart to punish them for it like a good _godgood good godgog og._  
(you would never hurt them, you make sure you count to ten because you would never hurt them, never never never)   
You miss your psionics. You remember the word and silently congratulate yourself and inwardly spit on your face godammit how could you even forget something like that? You miss it so much. It’s removal - forced you must say - is probably why you find your thoughts running away before you can clasp your claws around them and wrestle them into submission. You miss everything about ‘before’ - you miss the colours and the laughing and the smiles and actually being able to think straight for once, jegus but now you see everything in two colours in black and white and it's wrong - disgusting. Disgustingly monochrome. You want to throw up.  
  
Before you know it, you mutely register that there’s a soft hand on your back and you suddenly feel a lot more uncomfortable as the temperature around said appendage seems to plummet; you shrug it off a bit-too quickly and bite your lip cursing as you realise you’ve made the other troll recoil her hand away awkwardly and you feel bile slither up your throat, an ugly mustard colour just like the rest of your interior. You would have shredded her hand before if she’d done something to you but now you can just hope she’s not in the mood to kick your psuedo-carcass around and spit on a decaying memory, too stubborn to let go.  
  
You wish your haml-ha--helmet covered your entire face right now. You don’t feel like being seen but you slap a smile on your face anyway and let your mouth quirk up into a goofy smile that stretches your face so much it hurts. It’s not too premature to save this encounter.  
  
It’s Aranea standing behind you, strong and steady Aranea, her hand now casually at her side as she looks at you sympathetically with glossy blue eyes from behind white rims. Sympathetically and you. Ha-- you’d never have thought those two words would be in the same sentence and lo and behold the universe has come up with a giant fuck you and now the word pretty much clings to you with it’s greasy little phalangeal appendages and forces you to push the bile back down into your filthy stomach along with the rest of your soiled existence.     
“Mituna, are you okay? You’ve been sitting here quite a while” she inquires politely and avoiding ‘big’ words so you could comprehend her baby-babble. She’d been doing it subconsciously, you guessed, but it still serves to piss you off to an extent that Kurloz will often smooth down your hair in acknowledgement.  
  
You half-ass a somewhat lewd comment at her as you would and as usual you guess the words come out dislocated and fragmented in the process as she quirks an eyebrow quizzically and then pats you again on the shoulder, softer this time as she stalks away. You make a face because she’s not supposed to do that; she’s meant to look at you with a judging look and try not to giggle at the jokes you make which are often ridiculous in nature and banter with you for a while and then talk to her gillfronds about your stupid jokes which are filthy and disgusting but the only thing that feels filthy and disgusting is your mouth right now.  
  
It simply doesn’t happen anymore so you don’t bother speaking to people as much; Kurloz nags you to speak more again but you look at him oddly and he admits defeat - you miss his voice but you can count your blessings and simply be happy with the fact he doesn’t treat you all too differently. You miss being able to have intricate conversations by your respective brain-bending powers so you didn’t look like you were having a one-sided conversation every time he was near.  
  
Lightning flashes again as suddenly your helmet is too hot to bear and you sluggishly throw it to the floor as it bumps softly along the carpeted respite-block; you hear someone squak at the impact but you honestly could care less since it's suddenly got so fucking hot you cant't even breath goddamit. You don’t remember which room you’re in except that people come and go a lot so you’re not in the room that houses your recuperacoon. You wait for the next flash to illuminate the sky as you pretend it’s red and blue and white and black and suddenly consuming and enveloping your blood-pusher - the rush is unimaginable and you can’t remember it correctly without it tasting bitter in your mouth.  
  
It doesn’t stop you from trying though.  
  
You look for it as you hear the thunder grumble throatily and the sky crackle softly with promise of what’s to come. There’s the gathering of light like it’s magnetizing the space around it to await it’s arrival and then there it is - a brilliant staccato of pure energy ascending at a breakneck pace as you clamp your eyes shut. You see the afterimage when you open them again in a bright, somewhat distorted violet but it’s okay -- you can feel -- all that matters is that you remember the red and the blue and the violet and the black and every colour of the spectrum cycling through you, all of space and time and the dark corners and the brightest of stars as the ligh--psionics, psionics you tell yourself because you forgot again _you uselessfuckign pi le of_. Pretend that they’re your psionics not some pathetic childish light-show and a mockery of the power you once had. You feel like an old man pining after a lost lover; it was disgusting. You don't want to see yourself like this.  
  
Your head dips into your knees as they fold up sloppily underneath your chin and compress your body even smaller than it was with bones jutting out and skin seemingly struggling to cover them. You thank Latula that she made your suit so damn thick, it covers your physical cadaver but not the mental one.  
  
 _By the heavens though, you wish it did._     
  
There’s another hand on your shoulder and what is with people and putting your hand on thei--no, no their hand; your shoulder you correct again. You grumble inwardly as the words dance in the space between your eyes and then shoot you in the head over and over and over and over. And you run a hand through your hair before trailing aforementioned hand down and meeting the one on your shoulder. You recognise this hand, the size, the shape, the cool chill and the leathery gloves that are coating it like a second-skin and you hold it in yours, slipping your bony fingers through like they were created to be interlocked as you feel coolness seep through thick leather and it even smells comforting - Kurloz.  
  
If it was anyone else, you'd contemplate breaking their fingers off but Kurloz is your safe zone and in turn you are his. You’d never harm him. You’d rather die than do that and he’d never harm you. It’s still not the same though. His eye follows you too often - he’s too protective now. It hurts you because you feel like you’re no longer his equal.  
  
 _You wish you were._  
  
You offer him the same smile you gave Aranea and he makes a face at you, hiking an eyebrow up his painted face because Makara can fucking see through you like glass; it’s okay when he’s here.  
  
You don't want it to change.    
  
He takes none of that hoof-beat shit unlike the others and from the corner of your eye you see Aranea peek her head in from around the door and Meenah looks in, wondering what’s happening and the scorpio ushers her out, babbling on about ‘needing time’ and you curse aloud because where you that far gone that even Aranea noticed? You hiss in distaste as Kurloz chuckles deeply in his throat. more like an amused grumble and slinks his towering figure down onto the floor. You tiredly don’t say a word; you’re sad and angry and annoyed and broken and it hurts again like your blood is boiling and trying to escape through your eyes.  
  
You’re not going to cry.  
  
Kurloz smooths down your hair as you lean backwards into his embrace and he just doesn’t say a words; not like he can but you feel the familiar tingle of chucklevoodoos and you allow them passage as they ease away the suffering, barring up the fortress and boarding up the windows to your broken head.  
  
Your hair’s relatively back to normal as he gently, gently so gently ghosts over your forehead - you don’t like people seeing that because of the scars that criss-cross there and make their descent just past your eyelids with ugly angry marks that are darker than night itself.  
  
It’s a triumphant battle scar and also a seal of defeat.      
  
It still burns and crackles as Kurloz touches it but you hold your tongue as you feel the voodoos try and keep it contained; the horrorterrors try and crack through your skull to your brain and try and seep out like never before.  
  
You’ve locked doom up and swallowed the key and now and n _ow now now you--_  
  
 _You wish you hadn’t._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dislike childish mitunas  
> this mituna is angry and bitter and grieving and makes me sad too   
> also i am the only human being that likes first person


	2. it's hard to dance with the devil on your back

_They never stop whispering. He’d notice them and it wasn’t long before they noticed him._

You take his mind off of things, silencing the thoughts that seep through his head with chucklevoodoos; the gnawing thoughts that are not his own. He's long since grown used to them, if anything they are a routine to him by now, you guess; you’re more than sure a lesser troll would have torn their horns off in absolute delirium and opted for the fastest escape; culling on the spot and making quick work of it.

The ‘voodoos are abrasive and sharp even though you tries your utmost to keep them subtle; their base function is to enter and break and they are not tailored for such a delicate operation but you make it work somehow, they are unnatural and disjointed but subtle enough not to hurt. Mituna still recoils like a cat eyeing up a particularly venomous snake -- it’s not an expected reaction. You can vaguely remember a time when he'd welcome them in.

Mituna’s eyes are sullen and dim, and take on a tint of indigo thanks to the humming sweep of the chucklevoodoos that bathe his mind; they mean no harm but you know you can pull the strings of his mind any time and you also know he could have shredded yours. Could; past tense. He could probably make a nice light-show at best now and it pains _you_ to see your moirail reduced to this. You have a spark that tells you Mituna is thankful for the colour that graced his optical receptors. 

The ‘accident’ left him unable to see colours any more and you realise this is another miracle from the messiahs, Mituna does not judge and Mituna does not mind because Mituna will always see everyone in their best light, regardless of their blood-colour. Some trolls were unnaturally saintly but upon them were posed the beastliest of forces. Mituna was no saint but also not a sinner.

You’re sure he aches, he must because Mituna’s psionics were exactly that; solely Mituna’s. It was like a another limb and having it torn away, leaving scabbed over scars and faintly pungent gore in its wake. It made him more depressed than ever, the hurt in his eyes was evident and as the days passed his defences slipped and you could see more and more and more and more of the suffering. It hurts you because you can’t do anything. 

Mituna is a patient with a bad case of nothing left.

You're sure you can hear the wailing behind all the locked doors of Mituna’s head and he’s so, so sad. Melancholy has become his brother in arms and he uses it like a fortress to preserve his solitude. The pain and agony dwarves anything his matesprit could tend to and even you; his moirail isn’t sure how he can help Mituna anymore. 

Mituna is a patient that should be treated with death.

Your fist clenches unnaturally fast because you know you’d outlive Mituna anyway but now -- now; your heart constricts painfully and your eyes crease in the corners as you restrain bereaved sobbing here and now because not _now_ godammit, you were meant to live so long and you’d grow up and cruise the stars together before your respective matesprits call you home for lunch and you’d carry on laughing as Tuna flew you away with his psionics.

You rest a fingertip upon Mituna’s eyelids with as much finesse and grace as you can muster and you close them with great care, Mituna is spitting words at you, something about not being made of glass and a smile quirks your restrained lips upwards.

You don’t need words because he can remember and you can remember and you’re both locked in this moment; your memories run wild as you like to think that Mituna is at peace; or not exactly peace but close enough to some faux version of it. You wish one day you won’t have to sedate Mituna with the voodoos to ease the heavy smog of loathing and sorrow.

Everytime you use the chuckling psychic power you can feel it snag on all the cracks and sharp points of his labyrinth-esque mind which appears to get deeper and deeper every time you blink. The core of such a place is unfathomable and hard to think of, protected with a cascade of binary and numbers and all the things you can't make sense of and you don’t dare pry, not even playfully because it’s like Mituna’s always running on adrenaline these days - fight or flight. Without a doubt his mind would consume you and spit you out in more pieces than you'd ever fancy being in.

Your memories of the day were remembered with such poignancy and ethereal lucidity; so much it make the marrow of your bones twist in discomfort and make your already cool blood run that bit colder. 

Your throat constricts as the physical part of your mind delves down paths that sting and hiss at you with thorns being your welcome in bitter warning but you can never find the ability to pull away once you've set yourself on this path. You will always follow; it was a fundamental law of your brain. You can never really avoid it any more.

You'd see a mischievous young troll with life oozing out of him, blood the colour of sunlight and life itself, hair warm and dusky - falling into his face and concealing the most miraculous eyes you’ve seen. Mituna was so arrogant back then, brain so bloated and large and full of sharp, dire wit and he knew so much that you’re surprised that you could fit such a big brain into such a small skull adorned with the double horns that you admire so much.

You remember the way that you disapproved of him talking to Cronus, even then but he’d still banter with the sea-troll possibly because it knew it made you angsty. He’d laugh at you later on and shoosh and pap you, lulling you both into comfortable stasis, hearts beating in sync with each other in the most vanilla-filled pale session that you've ever experienced.

You’d often find him hitting on Meenah and Aranea, lewd as he was he was also the one to banter most and him and Meenah played a good game of it, trying to outweigh the other’s ludicrous advances with one of their own; or else he was wittily snapping at Aranea over something or advising because Mituna was miraculously smart, Mituna was _amazing_. He would laugh and say ‘only in your eyes’ with a wry smirk but you know it to be true and you know you’re moirails but the pity between you is shallow because you don’t pity - your respect for him is wicked crazy and his for you too but you still can't help but pity him and want to protect him and he's more than apt at calming and pacifying many fits of cold-blood rage. 

He listens to you despite you barely touching on some subjects and when he knows you don’t want to talk about it he rambles for you, perhaps so you don’t feel so alone as he goes on and on, seemingly without needing to catch his breath as you find your mouth twitching upwards again. 

It was as usual day, a day when the Mirthful Messiahs had called upon you and asked for your services; you had delivered swiftly and gracefully but still for some reason it weighed heavy on your conscience even though it never really would, You find Mituna and Meenah playing their game again, words any responsible lusii would probably shriek about if it heard them uttered even within a a mile radius.  
Mituna mock-salutes you and you acknowledge him with a nod in his general direction and it’s like he can smell what’s wrong as he excuses himself smoothly and slides into the pattern of your gait as the two of you find yourself walking away.

They say that the ones that are the most broken, hide behind the biggest smiles; you’d thought it to be angst-ridden prose for wrigglers designed to evoke self-pity and a sense of ‘woe is me’ but clearly you were mistaken because you found it to be far too true to be comfortable.

You talked and talked and talked, your throat a low growl as usual and Mituna listens, every words he listens and you are eternally thankful but you know you can’t tell him everything otherwise you know there’d be reason to harm him which you’d never be able to live with. You’re not asking for advice but merely an ear and he’s more than happy to oblige, knowing that you’re out of things to say and you just don’t want to speak any more; he takes his cue. You’ll always be thankful for the way he can tell what you need despite your lack of talking much. 

His psionics and your ‘voodoos mingle familiarly because you can both talk through your heads, he doesn’t dare overstep your privacy but you give him the go-ahead and he works his magic miracles that he’s blesssed with and sweeps away the tension in your head in a flush of black and white and yellow.

The two of you reconcile with each other about things you can’t really talk about with your matesprits and he talks and talks so you don’t have to. He talks of his dreams and you frown. 

“Do they still motherfucking haunt you brother?” you grumble gutturally as you stare at him with honest concern; Mituna’s dreams left him shaking like a leaf in the wind and unable to move somedays purely because of the blank terror that overcomes him and renders him completely unable to feel for a while. The others regard it as severe night-terrors but the Gemini insists that they’re visions, visions of a doomed timeline - this one happens to be theirs. 

But here, he’s still your Mituna and you won’t let him slip through your fingers once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what am i doing sorry tuna baby
> 
> word of warning this prob. won't have a happy end
> 
> also in kurloz's pov this time wish me luck


End file.
